


tactus

by story_monger



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 02:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12378972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: After coming back from his trip into deep space, Eiffel has trouble sleeping.





	tactus

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you want to write tooth-rotting fluff/angst and call it a day.
> 
> Takes place post-"Securite"

Minkowski is dreaming about her mother when something wakes her. She twists around in the sleeping net that keeps her in place, mouth already open to ask Hera for a sit rep. She closes her mouth when she recognizes the figure floating over her.

Eiffel hovers at her sleeping net’s edge, hands intertwined. Minkowski groans, unfastens the net, and tosses back her covers. He doesn’t move. He waits, as if wanting her to ascertain she’s being serious.

“I know I said last time would be it,” he says.

“I know.”

“It’s not anything weird,” he adds in a small voice.

“I know, Eiffel.”

“It’s just—“

“Eiffel. I know.” Minkowski jerks the blankets. “Come on, I have to be up in a few hours.”

Eiffel hesitates then moves forward and gently pushes Minkowski’s hand back down. “Hang on,” he says. He moves to the cabinet in the room’s corner, where the extra bedding is supposed to go. He extracts a second standard issue pillow and blanket and brings them to Minkowski’s sleeping net. She watches him settle the pillow next to her waist then he eases himself alongside her, atop her blankets, with his own blankets tucked around his shoulders. She peers down.  He’s so thin he almost disappears from view. His bent knees knock against her feet, and she can’t imagine he has much length of the net left to stretch out.

“Is that comfortable?” she asks.

“I just spent a few hundred days slowly dying in cryo. This is comfortable.”

Minkowski sighs and settles back into place.

Eiffel is completely still for the first five minutes, like he’s afraid that if he moves she’s going to boot him out. Idiot. She twists around and sighs loudly several times until he gets the hint. Eventually, he props himself on his elbows to rearrange his pillow. He curls toward her; his head is all but resting against her hipbone. He inhales like he’s trying to fill his lungs to capacity, then exhales so hard and long that Minkowski can almost feel the tension seeping from him. Unexpectedly, she feels something hot prick her eyes.

He feels safe. It’s like she’s nine years old again, bunking up with her brother in their grandma’s old house. She twists one last time and buries her face in her pillow.

***

When Minkowski stirs awake from sleep a second time, Lovelace is the one blinking down at her.

“Lovelace,” Minkowski says, propping herself on an elbow. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Lovelace says. Her head is tilted as she examines—oh. Right. There’s currently a communications officer snoring beside her.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking,” Minkowski says in a dry voice. “Take _three_ seconds to actually consider it.”

Lovelace’s eyes narrow. They go to Eiffel, then back to Minkowski, then her face clears.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. That wouldn’t compute.”

Minkowski exhales, sinking back down and digging a hand through her hair. “He has trouble sleeping,” she says.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Well, I figured. At some point the PTSD catches up.”

Minkowski feels her eyebrows draw together for a moment. “I guess so,” she says. A beat of silence. “You’re sure everything is okay?”

Lovelace blinks. Minkowski gets the sudden sense she’s trying to look innocent.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” Lovelace murmurs. “I um. Guess I thought.” She looks away with pursed lips.

“Yeah, okay.” Minkowski restrains from rolling her eyes. “Come on. There’s room if we all get real friendly.”

Lovelace flashes Minkowski an unreadable expression before she fetches yet another blanket from the cabinet and slips in on Eiffel’s other side. The sleeping nets are fairly big, but Lovelace still seems to struggle to snap the net shut behind her. Eiffel shifts and mumbles something, and both women remain still until he settles. Lovelace wriggles into place until her front is flush with Eiffel’s back, and she unabashedly wraps both arms around Eiffel’s upper chest. There’s something loose and easy about the motion that is quintessentially Lovelace.

“Damn,” Lovelace whispers. She flashes a worried look at Minkowski. “He’s bony.”

“Hilbert said he lost a little over half his body weight while he was out there,” Hera speaks up. Her voice is low, almost buzzing. Minkowski realizes that this is one of the few times she’s heard Hera whisper.

Lovelace exhales and rests her chin atop Eiffel’s head. “He told me to forget about it when I tried to apologize for the bomb,” she said. Her eyes are unfocused. “Did I tell you guys that?”

“No,” Minkowski says.

“No, but. You know. I heard,” Hera says. She pauses and adds, “I wouldn’t worry about it, Captain. We already put you through a pretty substantial guilt trip.”

Lovelace snorts. “True. Maybe he knew that.”

The three of them fall silent, the only sounds the humming of the ship and the slight snores coming from Eiffel. Lovelace tucks the bottom half of her face against Eiffel’s head, and her eyelids start to hang heavy. Minkowski remains as she is: on her side facing the other two and with her head propped up on one hand. She should try to sleep. She’s got a long rotation coming up, and the last thing she needs is to show up to work with her brain only partially functioning. But she can’t quite bring herself to leave this. Her communications officer, skinny and battered and alive, curled up against her with his ice block feet jammed between her calves. Her mother program’s attention hovering over them like a tangible thing. Her—whatever Lovelace is, slowly falling asleep with her cloudy hair undulating in the zero gravity and her eyes glittering like beetles whenever her eyes flutter back open.

“What’re you thinking about?” Lovelace asks. Her voice is fuzzed with exhaustion. Minkowski inhales and shifts slightly.

“Truth?”

“Or dare.”

“Ha.” Minkowski waves loose hair from her face. “Wondering how my life got to this point, mostly.”

“Welcome to the club, kiddo,” Lovelace says.

“You absolutely do not get to call me kiddo. I know for a fact that I’m older than you.”

“No fun. What _can_ I call you?”

“Why do you need to—“

At that moment, Eiffel inhales sharply and lifts his head. He seems to struggle to focus on Minkowski.

“C’mmander?” he slurs.

“Eiffel. Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eiffel blinks slowly at Minkowski. He tilts his head toward the ceiling. “Hera, are you—“

“I’m here, Officer Eiffel.”

“Okay. That’s good.” At that moment, he seems to realize he’s being spooned. He turns to examine Lovelace.

“Oh,” he states. “You too. Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Lovelace says. “How’re you doing?”

“Better. When did you get here?”

“Not too long ago.” Lovelace half shrugs with an apologetic air. “I heard there was a slumber party. I came in case there were any cute girls having pillow fights.”

“Oh god,” Eiffel breathes. He grins sloppily. “I missed you.”

“Aw you hear that?” Lovelace smirks over at Minkowski. “He _missed_ me.”

“I missed all of you.” Eiffel sets his head back down, his eyelids sliding shut. One hand finds Lovelace’s wrist and grips it as if to keep her in place. His other hand snakes out to tangle in Minkowski’s shirt. Minkowski can see both hands trembling finely, like pieces of down in a strong wind. “Hell,” Eiffel adds in a mumble. “I think I even missed Hilbert.”

“Well, we missed you too,” Hera says.

Minkowski thinks to add something, but she’s not sure if she’s ready to explain the directionless grief that had simmered among them for the months that Eiffel had been absent. Judging by Lovelace’s expression and Hera’s silence, they’re of the same mind.

“But seriously,” Lovelace says. “If this is too claustrophobic, I can go back to my own—“

“Nope,” Eiffel cuts in. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his brow furrows. “No leaving. I have absolutely no capacity for retaining body heat right now, so I need at least two space heaters at all times.”

“Eiffel,” Minkowski says in that tone that’s always half warning, half exasperation.

“I’m goddamn serious, Commander.” Eiffel curls in tighter, his forehead pressing against Minkowski’s sternum. His eyes are still closed. “After everything—I can’t—“ He inhales shakily. “Look, every few years, I gotta express my inner little spoon. So if either one of you leave, I’m suing. Hera has to stay too.”

“I’m literally always here, Eiffel,” Hera reminds him, but there’s inescapable fondness in her voice.

“Good,” Eiffel mumbles. “Keep it that way.”

Minkowski and Lovelace meet eyes over Eiffel’s head. Lovelace’s lips quirk up. Minkowski rolls her eyes and loops an arm over Eiffel’s side as well. He’s practically buried between them now, and she can’t imagine it’s at all comfortable, but the shaky sound that escapes him speaks to such naked relief that she doesn’t consider loosening her grip. And perhaps for the first time, she considers the full impact of floating alone in a half-dead shuttle for hundreds of days. How it took the irritating, loud, sociable Eiffel and chewed him up and spat out the person currently clutching her shirt like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. Back in the beginning of the mission, she thinks she’d have better appreciated the change. Now, it just terrifies her.

So she hangs on and she reassures herself with the knowledge that all her people are present and accounted for. It’s all she can really do.


End file.
